


The Boy From Under the Moon

by InterstellarBlue (nagi_schwarz)



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Except Dongmin, M/M, Mentioned ASTRO Ensemble, Non-Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27036535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/InterstellarBlue
Summary: Bin the dokkaebi has been enslaved by the royal family for centuries. Prince Myungjun would free him if he became king, but he will never be king. Until then, Myungjun will give Bin food and teach him music and sit with him under the light of the moon.
Relationships: Kim Myungjun | MJ/Moon Bin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37
Collections: Shoobie Monster Fest, What If? AU Challenge





	The Boy From Under the Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ariel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/872609) by [kathkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin). 



> Written for What If AU Challenge #34 Royalty and #43 Supernatural Part 4 and Folklore Day at the You Should Be Writing Monster Fest 2020

Myungjun was seven when he first noticed the strange man who walked with his father through the palace. First, the man was barefoot (Myungjun would have very much liked to also be barefoot, because it was summer, and hot, and he hated wearing shoes). Second, the man wasn’t wearing the long, fussy robes that the other cabinet ministers wore whenever they dogged Father’s heels about the palace, just trousers and a tunic.

And third, the man had a tattoo of a butterfly on the side of his neck, and Myungjun could have sworn that it  _ moved. _

Myungjun was playing by himself in the grand council room - he always played by himself, because there were no other boys his age in the palace, and he wasn’t allowed to play with girls, and none of the nurses would actually  _ play _ with him - when he saw the strange man walking with Father.

Unlike the fussy ministers who shuffled and murmured, the man walked silently, head up, shoulders back. He didn’t have a beard, and he was handsome.

When everyone came into the council room, Myungjun ducked under the council table and kept playing with his toy soldiers and horses and dragons, because Father and the council would be talking about boring old man things anyway. He stared at the man’s bare feet, impressed by how clean they were, and then he was tempted to march his toys over the other ministers’ shoes.

Before Myungjun could deploy his mounted warriors, the strange barefoot man slid out of his seat and knelt beside the table.

“Bin-ssi,” Father said sharply.

The strange man looked at Myungjun for a long moment. His features were fine and feline-like, but when he smiled, he looked young, like a puppy.

“Prince Myungjun,” the strange man said, and his voice was light, airy where Myungjun had expected it to be deep. “Do you want to stay and play?”

Myungjun lifted his chin. Even though he was the second son, he was still a prince of Silla, a True Bone. He would stay and play if he wanted to. “I do.”

“You can stay and play if you win.” The man held out his hand. On his palm he held two gleaming ivory dice. 

Myungjun took the dice. They were cold, heavy. 

The ministers spluttered and protested, but Father just sighed. 

Myungjun rolled the dice like he’d seen palace guards do sometimes when they were gambling on their lunch breaks. 

They came up snake-eyes. Myungjun shivered, sure the eyes were actually looking at him. 

The strange man tilted his head. His smile was gentle and sweet, but the butterfly on the side of his neck fluttered its lacy black wings. 

“Looks like you can’t stay here,” he said. 

Before Myungjun could protest further, he heard his nurse say, 

“Your Majesty, did you call me? I thought I heard your voice.”

The strange man slid back and rose, and Myungjun thought, for all that he wore plain linen trousers, his clothes were much finer than the ministers’ and Fathers’ silk robes.

“Keep a better eye on my son,” Father snapped.

The nurse stammered out an apology, and then she skittered forward and snatched Myungjun out from under the table. He protested and tried to grab his toys, but she carried him away.

For the rest of the day, Myungjun sulked in the children’s quarters until it was time for bed.

When he woke the next morning, all the windows in his room were flung wide open, and all his toy soldiers were lined up on the window sill, arranged perfectly for battle.

Later that day, Father shouted at him for playing in the council room, and then he shouted at the nurse, and then Myungjun didn’t see him for a week.

Myungjun didn’t mind, because sometimes, his toy dragons breathed fire.

* * *

When Myungjun saw the strange man again, it was in the fall, when the leaves were changing. Myungjun had escaped his nurse and his tutors and had grand plans to sweep up a massive pile of lives and jump on it. He’d never done it before, but he’d heard one of the maids talking about how she’d done it with her brothers and sisters when she was a child, and it sounded like a very grand time.

Myungjun had changed into the plainest clothes he could find and hiked out to the western gardens where no one but the gardeners went, because they belonged to his mother, and Father never went there because Mother had died when Myungjun was a baby and Father’s other wives were jealous of her memory. The gardeners hadn’t made it out to these gardens yet, tending to the ones closest to the King’s quarters, so there were plenty of red and gold and brown leaves scattered on the ground. Myungjun rolled up his sleeves and prepared to build himself a massive mountain -

And there he was, the strange man.

Standing beneath one of the maple trees, head tipped back, watching the leaves fall.

He was wearing the same clothes as the last time Myungjun had seen him, and he was barefoot again, which was stranger than before, as they were outside, and it was getting colder.

A breeze blew through the trees, and leaves showered down, and for one moment it looked like the man had a crown of red leaves.

Myungjun marched over to him.

“Are you a crazy person?” he asked.

There were crazy people - fools, people called them - who were allowed to entertain kings, say whatever they wanted to entertain kings, probably because being a king mostly meant talking about boring things all day. Myungjun was glad his older brother would be king one day instead of him. Being a prince would be much better. Myungjun could have fun riding horses and reading books and playing music, and also he’d never have to get married. Namjun was only eleven and already they were talking about who his wife would be.

The man looked down at Myungjun and said, “No.”

Myungjun considered. “You’re not crazy, or you’re not a person?”

The man laughed, the sound light and sweet. Only girls were supposed to giggle like that, but Myungjun liked the sound. 

The man held out his hand, and a single leaf drifted right onto his open palm. It was blazing bright red, like Father’s royal robe. The man knelt and held his hand out.

“If you catch a leaf, you can make a wish,” he said.

Myungjun stared at the man, unimpressed. “I’m a Prince of Silla. Anything I wish, I get.”

That wasn’t strictly true, but it was true enough.

“Some people wish for things they can never get,” the man said, and lifted his hand. Another breeze caught the leaf, carried it away into the air.

“Like what?” Myungjun asked.

“Your father wishes he could see your mother one more time.” The man rose.

Something in his tone was quite specific, and Myungjun turned, just in time to see his father, unaccompanied by guards or servants, step through the gate into the garden.

His head was bowed, and he looked very sad.

“What would you wish for, little prince?” the man asked.

Myungjun said, “I wanted to make a pile of leaves to jump in.”

The man tilted his head. “I’ve never heard a prince wish for that.”

“You’ve spoken to a lot of princes, have you?” Myungjun peered at the man.

“I have,” the man said. “What made you wish that?”

“I heard a maid mention it, and it sounded fun,” Myungjun said.

“Do you listen to the maids often?”

Myungjun nodded. “They say all kinds of interesting things. They talk about mermaids, and dokkaebis, and gumihos, and also about what it’s like growing up in the country, and how different it is from life in the palace.”

“Have they told you about how to summon a dokkaebi?” the man asked.

“Yes! If you crack open a hazelnut, you can summon the dokkaebi who protects a house, and he will grant you a wish,” Myungjun recited confidently.

The man smiled and ruffled Myungjun’s hair. “That’s right.”

Myungjun cast about for a hazelnut. “I’m going to ask the palace dokkaebi to help me make a pile of leaves to jump in.”

The man said, “I would help you, but I think when your father sees you, he’s going to be upset. You probably ought to leave, and when you come back another day, the gardeners will have cleaned up the leaves.”

Myungjun frowned, but he saw his father kneeling beside the hazelnut tree that had been planted for his mother, and he decided the strange man was right, and he said,

“I’ll see you around, stranger.”

And he scooted out of the garden.

He made it back to the children’s quarters right before his nurse reached the peak of her fury, and he submitted to her punishment meekly.

* * *

The strange man was correct - when Myungjun finally made it back to the garden to try to make another pile of leaves, the gardeners had already swept everything up, and there was no way for Myungjun to play.

Myungjun saw the strange man around the palace a few more times before winter set in - always in the same simple trousers and tunic, always barefoot - but didn’t have a chance to speak to him before he was packed off to Baekje to live at the court for tutoring with the princes there.

As Myungjun was being bundled up onto a horse, he saw the stranger standing at the top of the stairs of the royal council chamber, watching the caravan prepare for departure. Servants were packing gifts and supplies onto several carts, guards were packing weapons and armor for the long journey, and nurses were grumbling and heaving themselves onto their horses.

Myungjun waved at the stranger, and the man waved back. Myungjun was pretty sure he saw the butterfly tattoo on the man’s neck flutter, and then the man turned away. As he turned, his tunic gaped open, and Myungjun thought he saw red and blue cords criss-crossing his chest.

And then Father gave a boring speech, and Namjun gave a shorter speech, and Myungjun bowed, and the caravan headed for the gates.

The journey to Baekje was cold and miserable. One nurse and two guards died. The royal court at Baekje itself was even more miserable, despite the luxurious quarters and servants from home. The language was different enough to be difficult, and the food was strange. The other princes in the Baekje court weren’t Myungjun’s friends: they were enemies, rivals, spies. Myungjun had to work his hardest at his studies to be the smartest, the most talented, the strongest, the fastest, because the reputation of Silla rested on his shoulders.

Myungjun only traveled back to Silla for Seollal and Chuseok. He reported his progress to Father about the things he learned, he shared a meal with his older brother, and he paid his respects to his mother and ancestors. And sometimes he looked for the strange man with the butterfly tattoo, the barefoot man with the pretty laughter. During Chuseok, Myungjun went to his mother’s garden to see if he could build a pile of leaves, but he wasn’t the same child as before, and though he’d learned to listen to palace maids, to hear the secrets they whispered, he knew better than to be free with his own wants and desires.

But the leaves had all been gathered up and taken away, and there was nowhere for a young prince to play. So Myungjun went to his mother’s hazelnut tree and left her one of his toy dragons, and, as an afterthought, he gathered up some hazelnuts and slipped them into his pocket.

* * *

Myungjun spent three years at the court in Baekje, three years at the court in Goguryeo, and three years at the court in Qin, and when he was sixteen he returned to Silla for Namjun’s wedding, because Namjun had come of age, and he was being named Crown Prince.

While in the various courts, Myunjgun had learned the value of tempering his laughter and hiding his smile. He dressed as a scholar, wore a silver hair pin instead of a gold one, and he had only one attendant with him, also dressed as a scholar, so as to attract as little attention as possible. But heads still turned when he passed, because though he wasn’t as tall as Namjun, he walked with his head held high, and he’d inherited his mother’s delicate features and bright eyes. He listened to the court ladies and maids whisper as he passed. When the time came, a politically advantageous marriage would be arranged for him. His marriage wasn’t urgent, and perhaps his match could be more romantic. His future wife, whoever she was, would be fortunate indeed.

The men whispered when he passed as well. For all that he was small and had delicate hands, the reports of his fine skill with a sword and with a bow and on horseback were matched only by the reports of his fine skill with the calligraphy brush and drawing brush and gayageum. Toy soldiers and dragons had been replaced with baduk stones over the years, and he’d demonstrated a fine mind for tactics and strategy. He would be a fine advisor to his brother when his brother became king - or a dangerous rival and contender to the throne. 

Myungjun listened a lot and said little.

And kept an eye out for the barefoot man with the butterfly tattoo, though by now he was quite sure the man had just been a figment of his childhood imagination, someone he’d dreamed up to comfort himself in those first frightening, lonely nights far from home, even if he always tried to catch a falling leaf at Chuseok and made sure to collect hazelnuts here and there.

Myungjun ascended the steps to the council room, his chief attendant Jinwoo by his side, and saw the cabinet ministers crowded in the doorway, already trying to curry favor with Namjun.

Myungjun paused, hands clasped behind his back, and waited. He’d been summoned by Father for an important discussion; whatever Father wanted to say, he would say when and where and how he chose.

Jinwoo paused as well, just behind Myungjun’s right shoulder.

One of the ministers saw Myungjun and started.

“Young scholar, you’re not supposed to be here right now; this is a very important royal cabinet meeting,” he said.

Some of the others began to raise protests as well, but Namjun said,

“Brother, there you are. Thank you for not keeping Father waiting.”

The ministers fell silent.

The one minister who’d lodged protest at Myungjun’s presence bowed hastily. “Forgive me, Highness. It has been a long time since I have been graced by your presence. You have grown into such a fine young man that I did not recognize you.”

“It has been nine years since I last set foot in this room,” Myungjun said. He looked the man up and down and added, “Your shoes are the same.”

The man blinked, unsure of how to respond, and then Father said, “The rest of you are dismissed.”

The ministers didn’t protest the king’s order, merely shuffled down the stairs in a whispering of robes. Jinwoo and Namjun’s servants halted at the door. Namjun and Myungjun followed Father into the council chamber, and the door closed behind them.

The barefoot man stood beside Father’s throne.

This time he wore all black, like a warrior or an assassin, but Myungjun could still see the red and blue cords criss-crossing his torso beneath the folds of his tunic. 

“Now that Namjun is the Crown Prince,” Father said, “there are certain things you both should know. I’m sure you’ve both seen Bin around the palace before.”

Bin. Shining. Father had said his name once. He was even more handsome than Myungjun had remembered, but he was also younger, perhaps only nineteen or twenty. Myungjun realized that Bin had not aged in the nine years since Myungjun had last spoken to him, but as Myungjun had only been seven at the time, Bin had seemed much older. 

“Yes, Father,” Namjun said.

Myungjun bowed his head respectfully.

“Is he your servant?” Namjun asked, his tone cautious.

Looking at Bin now, with his scanty clothing and how handsome he was, he might have been something else.

Father said, “Bin is this family’s wisest advisor.”

Bin had no family name or clan affiliation or rank.

“Bin is - not human,” Father continued, and he winced ever so slightly.

Namjun raised his eyebrows. “Father,” he said, “this is -”

Madness. Heresy.

Father cleared his throat. “He was bound to serve descendants of a precious king by a shaman, and he will obey our commands precisely, so be careful what you say.”

“What  _ is _ he?” Namjun asked.

Myungjun said, “He’s a dokkaebi.”

Father turned to him. Namjun turned to him. Bin said nothing.

“Who told you that?” Father demanded.

Myungjun shrugged his shoulders lightly. “I hear things.”

Father looked at Bin.

Bin reached up but didn’t quite touch the butterfly mark on the side of his neck. He said, “I belong to the Old Man Under the Moon.”

Father said, “He belongs to our clan, and he obeys more direct descendants of the old king before others, so others know they’re not allowed to speak to him. He is powerful, and he is wise. He is the reason we have remained as powerful as we have in this unstable region.”

Myungjun saw something flash in Bin’s eyes, but again Bin said nothing.

Father glanced at Bin and said, “Advise me truthfully and fully.”

Bin said, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Father said, “The rest of the cabinet may enter.”

Bin flicked his wrist, and the council chamber doors eased open.

Namjun flinched, eyes wide.

Myungjun remembered how Bin had held a leaf and it had flown away, and he wondered just how powerful Bin was in addition to being wise. He’d heard so many legends about dokkaebis, and now he was about to find out which of them were true.

The ministers shuffled into the council chamber, Jinwoo and Namjun’s servants behind them. The ministers went to take their places at the council table. Bin descended from the throne dais and stood beside Father’s chair.

Namjun sat at Father’s right hand, and Myungjun at Father’s left hand, and the council meeting began. Historians lingered in the corners, writing down everything that happened. The Left State Minister launched into a discussion about a potential border skirmish, and the risk that the Jurgens would ally with the Qin.

Father asked for suggestions.

One of the ministers spoke up about what a previous king had done in a similar situation.

“Actually,” Bin said, “he just had the King of Jurgen killed.”

The minister harrumphed. “In the History of Silla -”

“I’m the one who killed him,” Bin said.

The minister closed his mouth so fast his teeth clicked.

“Not everything is in the history books,” Bin said. He glanced at the historian in the corner, whose calligraphy brush had stilled. 

Father said, “That’s not an option this time.”

Bin said, “King Adalla once made a trade agreement with the Baekje for a resource that the Jurgens needed and couldn’t get from Qin, forcing Jurgen to ally with Silla to get that resource.”

The ministers hummed, considering, and then launched into a debate over which resources they could leverage against the Jurgens.

Myungjun studied Bin and wondered what else he knew, had seen - and done at the order of a king.

* * *

Namjun’s wedding was a massive and surprisingly boring affair. There were feasts. There were acrobats and musicians and dancers. There were speeches and gifts and all kinds of important visitors. Through it all, Myungjun was on his best behavior. Everything he’d learned in his nine years away was put to good use: he knew the names of nobles and visiting dignitaries, he knew the proper etiquette for the different courtiers, and he helped Father and Namjun navigate the potential pitfalls.

Through it all, Myungjun kept an eye out for Bin, who was wearing a simple tunic and trousers again, though this time they were made of pale blue silk. As usual, Bin lingered near Father the way Jinwoo stayed near Myungjun. For the first time, Myungjun properly appreciated the way ministers and servants alike gave Bin a wide berth. Servants avoided his gaze, shrank in on themselves whenever they came near him.

Perhaps Myungjun should have paid more attention to Namjun’s beautiful bride, to the mountain of wedding gifts slowly growing before the bride and groom, calculating their wealth and symbolism, the respect or disrespect they represented, but he was intrigued by the way Bin’s eyes glinted when Namjun and the Crown Princess twined red and blue cords in front of the priest, the way Bin bowed his head, the way the butterfly on the side of his neck was utterly still, the fact that Bin was wearing shoes.

The festivities lasted late into the night, long after the bride and groom had retreated to the wedding chamber amidst much loud celebrating.

Myungjun managed to slip away from the festivities once Father and his ministers became quite inebriated, thanks to some sleight-of-hand from Jinwoo and the fact that he and Jinwoo were of a similar build and Jinwoo was wearing similarly-colored robes.

As Prince of Silla, Myungjun had his own quarters in the palace, having been upgraded from the children’s quarters sometime between his tutelage in Goguryeo and his tutelage in Qin. In the flickering torchlight, one stone staircase looked much the same as another. While Myungjun had been careful not to drink too much, he’d drunk enough that he didn’t care that he didn’t quite know where he was, and he walked aimlessly. Finally, he was sure he was on the right path back to his quarters when a pale blue slipper landed on the ground in front of him.

He looked up.

A man was standing on the peak of the corner of the roof.

“You! Get down from there!”

Too late, he realized that shouting at a drunken idiot on the roof would only startle him and make him fall to his death, but the man simply dove forward, somersaulted like an acrobat, and landed on his feet.

It was Bin.

Myungjun blinked. “Oh. I didn’t mean - oh. I didn’t mean for you to just  _ jump. _ You could have climbed down slowly or used a ladder or - how did you even get up there? Can you fly? Is that where you live? Do you turn into one of the roof carving dokkaebi during the day? Only I’ve seen you with my father during the day.”

Bin said, “You’re a little drunk.”

Myungjun said, “Did you throw your shoe at me?”

“I took my shoe off and it happened to land near you.”

Myungjun looked at Bin, and he was barefoot once again. “What happened to your other shoe?”

“It landed somewhere not near you.”

Father had said Bin would obey Myungjun and Namjun precisely, so they would have to be careful of what they said.

Myungjun said, “I’m bored. Play with me.”

Bin’s eyes gleamed. He held out one hand with a flourish, and there they were, the dice Myungjun remembered from his childhood. “All right. Let’s play. You win, I’ll give you a prize. I win, and we’ll have a ssireum match.”

While Myungjun had learned the art of ssireum, he wasn’t a particularly strong wrestler, had prevailed mostly on trickery. He doubted he had any chance of winning against a man as strong and broad as Bin, whose muscles were thick and sleek beneath his tunic. Of course, Bin was more than just a man.

So this was how Bin obeyed precisely. 

Myungjun accepted the dice and rolled. He won. 

Bin smiled and reached up - and plucked a gold coin out of the air. He held it out to Myungjun.

Myungjun accepted it. It was cool, heavy. Genuine. He turned it over, cautious. All of this should have been maddening, dizzying, frightening, but perhaps it was the alcohol, or the fact that Bin was tall and handsome, or the fact that Myungjun had been looking for Bin seemingly half his life even long after he’d convinced himself that his encounters with Bin had been dreams, but he was perfectly calm as he inspected the coin. He didn’t recognize any of the markings on it, not the profile of a pretty woman on one side, the flower on the other. “That’s it? I win?”

Bin nodded.

Myungjun said, “Thank you.”

Bin knelt, scooped up the dice. His wraparound tunic gaped open at the collar, and Myungjun saw the red and blue cords criss-crossed over his torso, tied in a complicated diamond pattern. “You want to play again?”

“I doubt I’ll win a second time.”

Bin cocked his head. “You don’t trust me?”

Myungjun said, “You’re enslaved to my family. Surely you hate us. You’re powerful beyond imagining. When I was a child, you barely cared to humor me. I suspect you’re barely humoring me now, because I’m drunk and still barely more than a child. Then again, as old as you are, we are all probably children to you. How old are you?”

“Old,” Bin said.

“When were you born?”

“I wasn’t.”

“How long ago were you enslaved, then?”

“The shaman who bound me said I would be freed by the seventeenth ruler descended from Hyeokgeose, the first king to whom I was bound,” Bin said.

The first king of all of Silla.

Myungjun blinked.

Bin said, “Your father is the fifteenth.”

Perhaps Bin was celebrating in his own small way. Namjun’s wedding meant Bin was one small step closer to freedom. Namjun’s son would be the king who set Bin free.

Myungjun said, “How would you be freed?”

Bin’s expression turned dreamy. “The king would simply command me to be free.”

Myungjun looked at Bin’s simple clothes, his bare feet, and realized he wanted nothing more than to be free - free of the human form he was chained in. Was that what the cords were for? Keeping him bound to his mortal body? Myungjun wondered what would happen if the cords were untied or cut. He reached out - then stopped himself, snatched his hand back.

Only Bin dropped the dice onto his outstretched palm.

“Play with me,” Bin said.

Too late, Myungjun remembered what else he’d heard from various palace maids over the years: dokkaebi were tricksters.

Only Myungjun said, “All right,” and rolled the dice.

For the second time in Myungjun’s life, they came up snake-eyes.

Bin scooped up the dice, and they vanished, either into thin air or into his clothes. And then he said, “Let’s wrestle.”

Myungjun cast about. “Not atop the stairs. If we fall, that’ll be bad. Worse for me than for you, but.”

Bin nodded. “Of course.”

They walked down the stairs to the flat courtyard. In the flickering torchlight, Bin looked even more ethereal and inhuman and beautiful. He flicked his wrist, and he was holding two lengths of shimmering blue pale fabric. They looked too delicate and fine to use as ssireum bindings, but he held out a length to Myungjun.

It was wide, though, so Myungjun said, “Here, let me help you fold yours.”

Bin looked startled, but then he nodded. There was something meditative about sharing the task. Myungjun had done it many times before, usually with other young princes and noblemen’s sons who were fierce opponents, rivals, but focusing on making precise, even creases was calming.

Myungjun was about to grapple with a supernatural being of immense power, one who’d been bound to his family for centuries, one who probably hated him. Myungjun was young and drunk and stupid. For nine years, he’d been on his best behavior. But he was only the second son, and tonight, no one was watching him. 

He watched Bin bind himself with the ssireum belt, wind the cloth around his right thigh and then his hips. 

And then Bin said, “Your turn.”

He helped Myungjun fold the cloth for his own ssireum belt, and then Myungjun went to tie the belt on, only Myungjun was apparently drunk enough that he didn’t quite do it right.

“Here, let me help you,” Bin said.

For all that Myungjun knew Bin wasn’t human, he was warm when he leaned in, and he smelled like cool satin and smoky incense. 

“Wait,” Myungjun said. He squirmed out of his outer robes so he was wearing just his trousers and his shorter under tunic, dropped the silk to the ground in a way that would have made him ashamed and feel guilty to the palace maids on any other day.

Bin leaned in again, and they tangled their hands as they tied on the ssireum belt, and then they knelt.

Myungjun slid his hands into Bin’s belt against Bin’s thigh and hip, and he felt Bin’s hands on him, was starkly aware of how big and strong Bin’s hands were.

“Ready?” Bin asked.

Myungjun said, “Ready.” He raised his voice and said to one of the nearby guards, “Count us in!”

There was a murmur, but then a guard said, “Yes, Highness,” and another guard said, 

“One, two, three, go!”

Myungjun rose with Bin, mind racing, and he went to shift his weight, catch him in a leg-locker trip, and then -

Then Bin straightened up, and Myungjun’s feet were completely off the ground. He dangled there for a second, utterly at Bin’s mercy, and then Bin twisted and Myungjun landed on his own tangle of robes and Bin was on top of him, pinning him.

Myungjun’s heart raced. Bin was solid and firm, and his gaze was endless.

He murmured, “I win.”

“Do you want your gold coin back?”

Bin tilted his head. He said, “When the leaves fall, let’s build a pile together and jump in it.”

Myungjun said, “All right.”

Bin stood, helped Myungjun to his feet. Several guards had shifted closer, weapons half-drawn, but Myungjun wriggled out of the ssireum belt, and he gathered up his robes, and the guards retreated back to their posts, still watching warily.

Myungjun looked at Bin and said, “Will you please show me how to get back to my quarters? I thought I knew the way, but it turns out I’m lost.”

Bin said, “You’re closer than you realize. Come on.” He beckoned, and he started up the stairs.

Myungjun followed him.

They both ignored the discarded shoe.

Bin led him right to the door of Myungjun’s quarters where the night-duty eunuch was waiting, as Jinwoo had gone to sleep.

“Sleep well, Highness,” Bin said.

“And you,” Myungjun said, trying to sound sober.

Bin said, “I don’t sleep.” And he turned and walked away.

* * *

As it turned out, Bin didn’t actually wear the same clothes every day, and he didn’t always follow Father around the palace. Myungjun could go for several days in a row without seeing Bin even if he encountered Father multiple times. He didn’t know where Bin stayed, and besides cracking a hazelnut, he didn’t know how to summon Bin. Since Bin was a trusted royal advisor, did he have servants of his own? Would a servant go summon him? But Myungjun had no reason to summon him, and Myungjun didn’t want to abuse the privilege - or risk annoying a creature who was clearly much more powerful than him.

Although Bin did seem, for the most part, benign. When he did attend council meetings, his counsel was sound, and even though Father and Namjun and the ministers didn’t always heed it, he seemed to give it thoroughly and honestly.

Father gave him the same command every time:  _ Advise me truthfully and fully. _

What would Bin do if Father made a request instead of a command?

Myungjun encountered Bin one day after a long, boring morning of lectures. Where Myungjun wasn’t the crown prince, he wasn’t obligated to attend, but he went out of support for Namjun, and also because he didn’t really have anything better to do, though after today he was sorely tempted to start making up something better to do. 

Myungjun was headed back to his own palace when he saw Bin walking along a railing overlooking a small garden and a series of serene pools that, on a full moon night, glowed beautifully.

“Hello, Bin-ssi,” Myungjun said.

Bin paused, balanced cat-like on his toes, and turned. Today he was wearing a uniform of ordinary tan, trousers and a tunic. The red and blue cords binding his chest were stark and overly-bright in comparison. “Hello, Highness.”

“How are you today?”

“I am,” Bin said.

“Have you eaten?” Myungjun asked.

Bin said, “I don’t eat.”

Myungjun blinked. Bin wasn’t human, so he didn’t eat, and he didn’t sleep. “Well, do you like food?”

Bin said, “No one gives me any.”

Myungjun blinked again. “Really?” 

He glanced at Jinwoo, who’d been walking quietly behind him. Jinwoo said nothing, but his expression was concerned.

“Jinwoo,” Myungjun said, “let’s go visit your cousin.”

Jinwoo looked aggrieved, but he nodded. Myungjun smiled at Bin.

“Would you like to come with us?”

Bin alighted from the railing and landed soundlessly. “Where?”

“To the palace kitchens.”

Jinwoo’s cousin Minhyuk could have been many things: a respected warrior in the King’s army, a skilled artisan jeweler or tailor, or maybe even a sought-after dancer, but he’d chosen to become a cook, and he was the best cook in the nation. No one knew it, of course, because he didn’t put food on the King’s table. No, he cooked for the guards and servants.

And for Myungjun, when he asked, because Myungjun employed Jinwoo.

Jinwoo led them to a smaller side kitchen and through a side door and into a room full of savory-scented steam.

Minhyuk was dancing back and forth between several sizzling woks, multiple steaming cooking pots, and several more bubbling cauldrons.

“Ah, hyung!” He lit up when he saw Jinwoo. “Are you hungry?”

“We all are,” Jinwoo said patiently.

“We?” Minhyuk echoed. He bowed hastily when he saw Myungjun.

And then he saw Bin, and he froze.

Myungjun smiled sweetly. “What have you got cooking today?”

“Ah - many different things, Highness,” Minhyuk said, once he recovered and tore his gaze away from Bin. “Pork dumplings with onions, red bean steam buns, I can whip up some kimchi fried rice, and I have black bean noodles, some steamed fish. Also some sugar candies and some candied flower petals. What would you like?”

“Give Jinwoo whatever he wants, and then a little bit of everything for me and Bin to share, please,” Myungjun said. “Anything Bin doesn’t like, I’ll eat.”

Minhyuk darted a wide-eyed glance at Bin. “Yes, Highness.” He handed Jinwoo a pair of chopsticks, a tray, and several dishes so he could serve himself, and then he fixed up a tray for Myungjun.

He handed the tray to Bin, of course, though he was very careful not to actually touch Bin, and he included a little flask of wine and a pot of tea.

“Thank you, Minhyuk,” Myungjun said, and Minhyuk bowed low.

“Any time, Highness.”

Myungjun turned to Jinwoo. “Let’s go eat in the garden. It’s a lovely day.”

When they emerged from the kitchen, they startled several maids, who looked horrified that Bin and Jinwoo were carrying food trays and Prince Myungjun had no further attendants, but Myungjun dismissed the maids, and then he dismissed Jinwoo, who was unable to decide whether he was worried our relieved but didn’t question Myungjun’s order further.

Myungjun and Bin sat beneath a hazelnut tree, and Bin set the tray of food between them.

“You know how to use chopsticks, right?” Myungjun held a pair out to him.

Bin said, “Before, people would leave me food offerings sometimes, or wine, but never chopsticks.”

“Oh. Well. If you want, you can use your hands, or -” Myungjun scooped up a dumpling with the chopsticks and held it out. “Have a bite.”

Bin sniffed the dumpling warily, but then his expression lit up, and he took a bite. 

“How is it?” Myungjun asked.

Bin chewed slowly. “Good,” he said. Then he spat it out.

Myungjun stared at him. “You have to swallow it.”

Bin said, “Why? It doesn’t give me any nourishment.”

“But you just spat it out. That was gross.”

Bin raised his eyebrows. “And what happens after you swallow food isn’t?”

“Point taken.” Myungjun cast about. “At least spit the food into this empty bowl, then, so you don’t scandalize the gardeners.”

Bin nodded and accepted the bowl.

“Here, have this piece of fish and see what you think.”

Bin didn’t like the smell of the fish and refused to even try a tiny taste of it, so Myungjun had the fish all to himself. Bin liked the kimchi fried rice and the jjajangmyeon, and he adored the candy, so Myungjun let him have most of it, which he could eat by hand.

After the meal was over, Myungjun said, “So, would you eat food again?”

“I’d be willing to try more,” Bin said. “If it wasn’t poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” Myungjun asked.

“One of your ancestors made me eat food to check if it was poisoned,” Bin said.

Myungjun could see the utility in that - spare a human servant and all. “Oh. I would never ask you to do that.”

Bin said, “You would order me to do it.”

“Well, I’m not the king and never will be, so why would I order you around?”

“You’re a True Bone. You could.”

“Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.”

Bin looked at him for a long moment. Then he unfolded himself and rose to his feet. “Thank you for the meal, Prince Myungjun.”

“You can call me just Myungjun, if you like. No one else does. Although when Father and Namjun-hyungnim are around you probably ought to use my title just to be safe.”

“Safe,” Bin echoed.

Myungjun eyed the blue and red cords where they showed in the gap of Bin’s collar, and then he said, “Safe.” He smiled and said, “Next time, we can try different food. Minhyuk makes the best food in the palace, but Father doesn’t know it.”

Bin said, “There’s a lot your father doesn’t know.” He bowed, and then he turned and walked away.

Despite the bright noon-day sunlight, he cast no shadow.

* * *

When Myungjun wanted to be alone, he headed to a small storage room where the musical instruments were kept. While Jinwoo was a talented musician, he was more of a percussionist than anything, and Myungjun played the gayageum, and sometimes Myungjun wanted to lose himself in the intricacy of a melody. Being a musician was useless in the world of statesmanship, but music was something he cared about, and so he practiced. Now that he was back in Silla, he could indulge in music a little more, and he wasn’t competing with other people, so he could really  _ play. _

He supposed that he shouldn’t have been surprised when, halfway through a song, one of the windows flew open, and Bin was perched on the windowsill.

Myungjun yanked his hands off the strings so as not to spoil the song. “You startled me.”

Bin tilted his head. “You play prettily.” He slid off the windowsill and landed on the floor, prowled across the room, and settled on the floor beside Myungjun. “Play some more for me?”

“Do you play?” Myungjun asked.

Bin shook his head.

“You’ve been alive for such a long time. You’ve never learned?”

Bin shook his head again.

Myungjun rolled his wrists to loosen them, and then he lowered his hands to the strings once more. “What would you like to hear?”

“What’s your favorite song to play?”

Myungjun said, “This song is about butterflies.” 

It was a song his favorite nurse had sung to him, that she’d always said his mother had sung to him when he was very small.

Bin tilted his head again, listening. He nodded, and the butterfly on the side of his neck began to flutter its wings. 

When the song ended, Myungjun lifted his hands away from the strings carefully, letting the final note hang in the air.

“No one’s ever played a song for me before,” Bin said quietly.

Myungjun frowned. “Ever?”

“Ever.” Bin looked at him. “I don’t forget things.”

“Not even before you were...in your current form?” Myungjun looked Bin up and down. Today Bin was wearing all black again, his uniform studded with silver buckles. “Has anyone ever sung for you?”

“Why would someone sing for me?”

“I don’t know,” Myungjun said. “You’re Father’s wisest advisor. You’ve never been celebrated?”

“Why would anyone celebrate me?”

“Because you help the kingdom? Because you’re handsome?” 

Bin blinked. “Am I handsome?”

“Have you never looked in a mirror?”

Bin just blinked at him again.

Myungjun sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “Come on.” 

He led Bin out of the music storage room and across the palace grounds to his own small palace. 

“Highness,” Jinwoo began, “welcome back. Do you need -”

“I need some privacy, thank you. You’re all dismissed.”

Jinwoo went pale when he saw Bin, but he nodded, and immediately he ordered all the other servants away from the palace, and soon it was so quiet Myungjun could have heard a pin drop.

“You probably have plenty of mirrors,” Bin said.

“Can you even see yourself in a mirror?” Myungjun asked.

“I can see myself in pools of water,” Bin said. “But how does that mean I’m handsome? And why would I be celebrated simply because I’m handsome?”

Myungjun settled at his desk and poked through the drawers, found paper and brushes and ink, and he rolled up his sleeves. Bin sat opposite him. 

“Writing about how handsome I am isn’t going to make people believe I’m handsome. They think I’m a monster,” he said.

“I’m not writing,” Myungjun said, grinding some ink very carefully. Ink for writing needed to be one consistency. Ink for painting was something else.

“Oh.”

“Can you sing?” Myungjun asked.

“Me?”

“Surely you’ve heard people sing.”

“I have.”

“Have you ever tried it yourself?”

“No.”

“Will you give it a try? The song about the butterfly. The melody,” Myungjun said, and hummed to give himself a rhythm to grind ink to.

At first Bin wasn’t very good, his voice cracking, unstable as he tried to follow along, but he learned fast, and by the end, his voice was high and sweet and clear, and Myungjun had enough ink to paint.

Bin continued to sing the song, getting better and better with each repetition while Myungjun worked. Halfway through Myungjun painting, Bin said,

“Is that me? That  _ is _ me. That’s what I look like when I see myself in the moonlit pools. That’s never how we look when people carve us or paint us on buildings but - that’s  _ me.” _ He leaned in, eyes wide. “How did you do that?”

“Well, I’ve looked at you before, so I know what you look like,” Myungjun said.

“Can all humans do that?”

“No,” Myungjun admitted. “It’s something we have to learn and practice, same as any other skill.”

Bin reached out but didn’t quite touch the paper. “What will you do with it once it’s finished?”

“You can have it if you want,” Myungjun said. It occurred to him that Bin might not have anywhere to keep it. 

“I could hang it in my room,” Bin said.

“You have a room?”

Bin nodded.

“But you don’t sleep.”

“One of your ancestors insisted I have a room anyway.”

“After I’m finished with this picture, will you show me?”

Bin hesitated, then nodded.

His room was located in a distant corner of the palace, back where a high-ranking court lady of a lower-ranking concubine might have her quarters.

“Why so far?” Myungjun asked.

Bin was leading the way, but he was distracted by his portrait, which he held very gingerly by the corners, gazing at it solemnly. “King Talhae kept his quarters near there. It was convenient, then. Subsequent kings have preferred it if I’m not so close to them.” He added, almost absently, “Some queens liked it if I was close.”

Myungjun cast him a sharp look. Surely he didn’t mean…?

Before Myungjun could muster up the courage to ask if previous queens had taken Bin as a lover, Bin led him up several steps and into a large open chamber that had a bed, a few couches, and a desk. It also had some empty bookshelves and a few lacquer wooden chests for clothing and other personal belongings. A screen in the corner marked off a space for bathing and changing clothes. The place barely looked habitable.

Bin was already - always - barefoot, so he walked right in. Myungjun paused beside a haphazard pile of shoes and stepped out of his, then followed.

“What do you do, when Father or Namjun don’t summon you?”

Bin said, “I walk around the palace, mostly.” He set the portrait down on the desk.

Myungjun thought of Bin standing on the roof, and walking along the railing, and appearing on the windowsill.

“I eat meals with you, and listen to you play music, and sing with you.” Bin stared down at the portrait for a long time, then looked up at Myungjun. “If this form is handsome, what are you?”

Myungjun blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your form is pleasing to the eye. Are you also handsome? The palace maids say you are, and some of the palace guards as well.” Bin crossed the room and stood in front of Myungjun, reached out, traced a fingertip along his jawline. “I’ve heard the other things the maids say.”

Myungjun had heard what they said, too, dreaming about catching his eye and becoming his lover and getting with child and becoming a royal concubine.

“Are the maids right?” Bin asked. “Are you a good kisser?”

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” Myungjun said.

“Me neither,” Bin said. He was still tracing the line of Myungjun’s jaw, over and over again, his touch feather-light and making Myungjun’s heart race. 

“Then how would you even know if I was a good kisser or a bad kisser?” Myungjun asked, though the words came out breathy and uneven.

“If I kiss you and I like it, then you’re a good kisser,” Bin said. He leaned in.

Myungjun said, “Should you want to kiss me? My ancestor enslaved you. You should hate me.”

“As long as you never command me, I am more powerful than you can ever comprehend,” Bin said softly, “and if I want to kiss you, what’s wrong with that?”

“We’re both boys,” Myungjun said.

“Am I a boy, really?” Bin said.

Myungjun blinked.

Bin said, “I’m going to kiss you now, all right?”

Myungjun nodded and closed his eyes. Bin’s kiss landed as soft and cool as falling raindrops, but then his mouth was warm and sweet, and his arms around Myungjun’s waist were solid and strong. Bin gathered Myungjun against his chest, and for one moment Myungjun was tempted to reach up and unfasten the cords beneath his tunic, but then Bin was picking Myungjun up and carrying him, and when Myungjun opened his eyes Bin was lowering him to the bed.

“Is this all right?” Bin asked, his dark eyes solemn.

Myungjun’s heart was racing, but he nodded. “Am I a good kisser?”

Bin said, “The best,” and leaned in again.

* * *

After that, Myungjun still attended daily lectures, hunts, weapons training, and other activities with Namjun and Father when required, but whenever he had a spare moment, and when Bin wasn’t called upon to advise Father or Namjun, Bin and Myungjun were together. Sometimes they wandered the palace. Jinwoo and the other servants left them alone, partially because they were nervous around Bin, partially because they could be assured of Myungjun’s safety while he was with Bin, what with Bin being as powerful as he was.

Other times, Bin and Myungjun stayed in Bin’s quarters, where Myungjun’s drawing supplies and musical instruments slowly accumulated. The two maids who’d had the unfortunate luck of being assigned to clean Bin’s quarters made no mention of the changes to Bin’s furnishings, for with new instruments came tables and chairs required to hold them and play them, and drawing desks, and couches for Myungjun to recline on while he read Bin fairy tales, usually ones about dokkaebis so Bin could laugh about how terribly inaccurate they were - or tell him which parts were truth.

“Will you get into trouble, spending time with me?”

“I’m a prince, but also I’m the second son,” Myungjun said.

“The firstborn son doesn’t always become crown prince,” Bin said.

“Well, I’m not the crown prince, so no one really cares about me,” Myungjun said, one day while he and Bin were lying side by side on the bed Bin never slept in after hours of kissing lazily, hands roaming, clothes half-undone. “But if I were king, I’d command you to go free.”

While Myungjun could command Bin to do many things, only the king could command him to be free.

Myungjun never commanded Bin to do anything, though. Father had warned Myungjun to be careful what he said to Bin, so Myungjun was always careful to ask or suggest and let Bin decide for himself.

Myungjun watched Bin when he sat in council with Father, had learned to read the truth behind Bin’s politely blank mask, and he saw - Bin was tired of being bound, being made to serve, tired of the endless petty mortal squabbles.

Bin was frustrated whenever Father failed to heed his advice, and then one day the call came: they had to ride to battle against the Jurgens, because Father had failed to heed Bin’s advice, the fragile peace between their two nations had fallen.

Somewhere between the first and second day’s ride to the border, Bin’s horse escaped. Father was furious, and he shouted at Bin, lifted a hand as if to strike him, but then he paused, checked himself, and Myungjun saw something like fear in Father’s eyes.

“He can ride with me,” Myungjun said hastily, tugging Bin up onto his saddle and letting Bin ride in front of him, which was quite silly, because Bin was taller than him, and how would Myungjun guide the horse now?

Only Bin made a soft clicking noise with his tongue, and Myungjun’s stallion started forward placidly, far too placidly for a warhorse.

“You can speak to horses?” Myungjun asked.

“Horses, like all living creatures, have voices,” Bin said. “And wills, and minds of their own.”

Myungjun heard the wistfulness in Bin’s voice, and when he leaned against Bin’s back, felt the rough bite of the cords binding him through his tunic, and he said nothing.

When they reached the border, the king of the Jurgens was unimpressed with Father, Namjun, Jinwoo, Bin with Myungjun hanging onto his waist, and the fifty men with them.

There were a hundred Jurgen warriors on horseback and five hundred infantrymen on foot on the other side of the border. Myungjun remembered being a child sitting on the floor of the council room, wanting to march his toys over an old man’s slippered foot.

He remembered having a toy dragon that occasionally breathed fire.

“So you’ve come to surrender?” the king of the Jurgens asked.

“Bin,” Father said, “drive them back, but don’t kill them.”

The king of the Jurgens raised his eyebrow.

Bin hopped off the horse and landed, barefoot. 

And then he reached up, shrugged off his tunic, unknotted one blue cord and one red cord and -

The sky split open. Lightning slashed the heavens and crashed down around them. Thunder shook the ground. Clouds rolled in overhead, and it was as if night had fallen hours too soon. Gale winds started to swirl, and - in a fork of lightning, another figure appeared, tall and pale-haired and barefoot.

“Hyung,” he shouted, but half of his voice was lost in the thunder. 

Where Bin wore black, the other boy wore white. Beneath his tunic, he too wore red and blue cords. He snarled and lunged at Father, but Bin made a sharp gesture, and the boy stalked toward the Jurgens, and lightning flared from his hands.

Men went tumbling off their horses. Dust swirled and kicked. More lighting lashed down around their troops.

The rest of the troops screamed and fled.

The king of the Jurgens stared at Bin and the other boy in horror, but he clung to the reins of his horse.

Bin made another sharp gesture, and then he was flying up into the air, carried on wind and lightning, and then he was - gone.

Dissolved into the tempest that raged around the Jurgen troops as dual storms chased them from the border.

No one died, perhaps, but plenty were injured, and all were terrified.

And then Bin was kneeling beside Myungjun’s horse, panting, as the blue and red cords snapped back into place on his torso, knotting themselves.

“Hyung!” the other boy screamed, but he was being tugged skyward.

Myungjun could only stare as the blue and red cords binding him slithered and pulled.

Of course. Red and blue twins, bound by the Old Man Under the Moon.

Bin had been bound separate from his other half.

Myungjun slid off his horse and knelt beside Bin, scooped up his tunic and draped it over his shoulders, careful not to touch him.

“Any questions?” Father asked the king of the Jurgens, his tone cool.

There was no reply.

“Then we’ll be going,” Father said, “and you’ll send a deed for the additional one hundred acres north of our border.”

Again there was no reply, but Myungjun could only assume Father had received some sort of affirmative. Jinwoo hopped off his horse and took the reins of Myungjun’s horse. Myungjun waited till Bin could stand, and then Myungjun walked with him. Bin could walk under his own power, but he moved slowly, like he was in great pain.

They fell behind the others, but for once Father didn’t yell at Myungjun or Bin.

“You hate it, don’t you?” Myungjun said quietly. “Being bound.”

“It’s hell.”

“If I were king, I would free you, but that will never be.”

* * *

Plenty of people had heard tales of Bin’s power, but this was the first time anyone in Myungjun’s generation had actually seen it, and if people had given him a wide berth before, now they treated him like both a pariah and like a second king. No one made eye contact, and anyone who dared to address him at all used only the most respectful language.

But there were limits to Bin’s power.

He could stop an army with a flick of his wrist, but he couldn’t cure a disease.

“I order you to save him!” Namjun shouted, while Myungjun and he knelt at Father’s bedside.

The palace physicians, priests, and shamans were all huddled nervously on the other side of Father’s bed, eyeing Bin where he stood at the foot of Father’s bed, dressed all in black like a grim reaper - or an assassin.

“He’s ill,” Bin said. “There’s nothing I can do. I don’t have that kind of magic.”

“Then I order you to find someone who can save him,” Namjun said.

Bin closed his eyes, tilted his head, as if he were listening to something far away. He shook his head, opened his eyes. “There is no one who can.”

Namjun tossed his head. “Then what use are you to this family? I should just get rid of you.”

Bin said, “Please do.”

“No,” Father croaked. “No. He has had many years to build up resentment against us for his imprisonment. Whatever you do, never set him free.”

“Father,” Namjun said, “I promise, I won’t.” He glared at Bin. 

Bin bowed his head and said nothing.

Namjun said, “If you don’t help the King, what will happen to this kingdom?”

Bin said, “You will become king.”

Namjun stared at him.

Bin said, “I have served fourteen kings before him. Kings live and kings die. I always serve.”

“And serve you will,” Namjun said. Then he glanced at the physicians, priests, and shamans. “You say there is none who can save him?”

Bin nodded. 

Namjun said, “Answer me truthfully and fully.”

“There is no one in this world who can save your father as he is, but had he been honest about his illness and sought treatment sooner, he could have been saved,” Bin said.

Namjun looked at Father. 

Myungjun looked at the physicians and priests and shamans and dismissed them. They fled. 

Father said, “The nation needed a strong king.”

“The nation needs a living king,” Namjun said.

“And the nation will have one.” Father reached out and grasped Namjun’s wrist. 

Namjun looked up at Bin. “Why didn’t you advise him to seek treatment?”

“How do you know I didn’t? And if I did, I have no power to make him heed my advice,” Bin said. 

Father said, “Never forget that he is an advisor but  _ you _ are the king.”

Namjun looked up at Bin and said, “Never.”

Myungjun looked up at Bin and saw something fracture in his gaze, but his expression was as blank as ever.

Namjun banished both Myungjun and Bin from Father’s quarters, and Myungjun hurried down the stairs so he was far out of earshot of Namjun and any of the servants of most of the guards. Jinwoo, who’d been lingering outside of Father’s quarters, started toward him, then backed off when he saw Bin following Myungjun.

“Are you angry at me too?” Bin asked in a low voice.

Myungjun looked at him. “Me? Why?”

“Because I can’t save your father.”

Myungjun shook his head. “No. I know there are limits to your magic, and I know everyone dies in the end. Everyone human, anyway.” And if Father died, Bin was one step closer to freedom. 

Myungjun wasn’t wishing his father dead, but he wasn’t wishing Bin’s further enslavement.

Bin reached out but didn’t quite touch Myungjun. “You don’t kiss me anymore.” 

He’d kept his words very soft, but Myungjun didn’t dare risk that anyone overheard. He marched for Bin’s quarters without a word, and of course Bin followed. The maids were in the middle of cleaning, but they fled as soon as they saw Myungjun and Bin.

Bin flicked his wrist, and the doors swung shut behind the maids, and Myungjun was pretty sure he heard one of them let out a little scream.

“You  _ are _ upset at me,” Bin said.

Myungjun looked up at Bin. “You should be upset at me. You shouldn’t want to kiss me at all. My father and brother have enslaved you and separated you from your twin. You should -”

“Being imprisoned here, on this plane, in this body, is agony,” Bin said, “and the only bright part of my existence is you.”

Myungjun said, “Oh,” and let Bin kiss him.

* * *

Father died two days later, and Namjun was crowned the new king. His first duty was to mourn the old king.

His next duty was to stave off the incursions from the neighboring kingdoms, older kings wanting to test the new king’s mettle. 

Myungjun’s father had never ordered Bin to kill, though when Bin unleashed his power and called his twin down from under the moon, many were hurt and much was destroyed. 

Namjun preferred a different tactic. 

He ordered Bin to kill a single person: never a nobleman or high-ranking soldier, because that would cause too much political unrest; just a peon infantryman, a barely-trained farmer given a weapon and armor and marched to the border in a show of force. But the deaths were brutal. Myungjun had seen the carvings and paintings of dokkaebis carrying bats that they beat people with. The first time Bin slid off Myungjun’s horse and summoned a spiked bat from thin air and swung it at a terrified farmboy’s head -

It was Myungjun who sat with Bin in his quarters hours later, cleaning blood off of his hands and face while Bin sat on the floor, limp, letting Myungjun manipulate his limbs like a doll. Myungjun wrangled Bin out of his clothes and dumped them in a heap on the doorstep, ordered a maid to burn them.

Myungjun reached out and tried to unfasten the knots in the bindings on Bin’s chest, but the cords just slithered and slid like red and blue snakes.

Myungjun snatched his hands back.

“You can’t,” Bin said tiredly. “No one can, unless I’m given a command.”

“I never realized my brother could be such a monster,” Myungjun said. “Everyone acts like  _ you’re _ the monster, but -”

“You were gone for nine years. Your family are all strangers.”

“If I were king...but I will never be king.” Myungjun wrapped his arms around Bin and held him tightly.

Bin buried his face in Myungjun’s hair, and they sat there till dawn.

* * *

Myungjun woke in the middle of the night when his window flew open with a bang. The night eunuchs panicked. The night court ladies panicked. The night guards surrounded him, weapons drawn.

Bin stood on the window sill, one hand outstretched. “It’s a full moon tonight. You should come look at the moon pools with me.”

“Highness?” the head guard asked.

Myungjun waved him away. “It’s fine. It’s just Bin.”

None of the servants looked at all comforted at the notion of  _ just Bin, _ but they backed away. Myungjun dressed himself quickly in comfortable clothes, trousers and a tunic, and then he grabbed a pair of shoes and slipped them on and followed Bin out the window and across the palace grounds to the series of pools that, in the full moon light, were perfectly still and serene and were like mirrors of the most perfectly polished bronze.

Bin sank down beside one of the pools and rested his chin in his hand and gazed at his own reflection. He was beautiful.

“Are you here to admire your own beauty?” Myungjun asked. Not that he’d never lain beside Bin and gazed at him and also admired his beauty, but he’d been awakened from a dead sleep.

Bin glanced up at him. “Sit beside me? I’ve never seen us together.”

Myungjun obliged him and sank down beside him, leaned in so they could both see their reflections in the pool, and - oh.

It was like looking at one of the wedding portraits Myungjun had seen hidden away in dark corners of the palace. Namjun was the eldest son, but his mother, now queen mother, had been a concubine. Myungjun’s mother had been a proper princess from a noble house.

Myungjun had never imagined himself side-by-side with Bin like this.

“Could you draw us?” Bin asked. He met Myungjun’s gaze in the mirror-pool.

“I could,” Myungjun said, and vowed to memorize the image on the surface of the water.

Bin hummed the song about the butterfly that Myungjun had taught him, and then he reached out, waved his hand over the pool, and their reflections were gone, replaced by the massive image of the glowing full moon.

“I miss him,” Bin said.

Myungjun blinked. “The Old Man Under the Moon?”

Bin shook his head, and Myungjun realized he must have meant his twin.

Bin waved his hand again, and the image of the moon was replaced with a boy. Not just any boy - the pale-haired boy Myungjun had seen summoned to the battlefield, the one with the round cheeks and bright eyes.

“What’s his name?” Myungjun asked, only it occurred to him that perhaps dokkaebis didn’t have names the same way humans did, that Bin had only had a name forced on him when he’d been bound to his current form.

“Sanha,” Bin said. “His name is Sanha.”

The boy tilted his head and smiled sweetly, waved, and Bin waved back.

Myungjun recoiled, startled. He’d thought the image was just an illusion, a trick of Bin’s magic.

“I can only see him on full moon nights,” Bin said.

The boy’s eyes went wide, and he beckoned, so Myungjun leaned in again, and another sweet smile blossomed on the boy’s face.

Myungjun waved and said, “Hello, Sahna.”

Bin sighed. “He can’t hear us, and we can’t hear him.”

“Can he read? Have you tried writing letters to him?”

“I can read and write, but one night a month isn’t enough to teach him.”

Myungjun looked at Bin. “I can’t begin to understand how much you miss him.”

“If I were human and thought my prayers mattered, I’d be at the temple every day praying for the queen to have a son,” Bin said.

A son who would become the king who would set Bin free.

Myungjun said, “If I were king -”

“I know.”

Sanha waved at them, and they waved back. Sanha made a butterfly with his hands, and Myungjun made a turtle in return. Bin was an expert and could make a bird and a dog and a cat and a frog; apparently he and Sanha played this game often. They traded animals and other hand signs back and forth until the moon began to set, and the connection was broken.

Bin walked Myungjun back to his quarters. He apologized when Myungjun yawned, but Myungjun shook his head.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad I could meet him under much better circumstances.”

Bin smiled, and then he helped Myungjun up onto the windowsill. Myungjun climbed down into his quarters, and Bin perched on the windowsill and watched Myungjun change back into his sleeping robes and crawl into bed. Then Bin murmured a  _ Sleep well _ and slid off the windowsill, closed the windows, and vanished into the night.

The next day, Namjun summoned Myungjun to have breakfast with him.

“You’re friends with that creature, aren’t you?” Namjun picked at his kimchi only after a servant tasted it for him.

Myungjun ate his rice delicately. “Bin and I are friends, yes.”

“Don’t fool yourself.” Namjun cast him a sharp look. “You can’t be friends with a  _ dog.  _ Bin is no more than a warhorse or a hunting hound or any other very fine pet. He’s useful, and that is all. Don’t be a madman. Don’t be a heretic.”

Myungjun peered up at Namjun through his lashes briefly. “Father warned me to be careful what I say to him. I’ve always heeded his counsel.”

That Namjun had not hovered in the air between them, unspoken.

Myungjun added, “I’ll stop by the temple and burn some incense for the queen. I hope she has a healthy baby boy soon.”

Namjun looked startled, then smiled, pleased. “Thank you, brother.”

So he didn’t know about the prophecy.

* * *

It was an open secret in the palace, that Myungjun was favored of Bin, to the point that even Jinwoo was starting to avoid him, if only because whenever Bin came around - which was more and more frequently, these days - Myungjun dismissed all the servants, Jinwoo included. More and more frequently these days, Namjun was using Bin and his power to settle disputes, not just outside the kingdom but within the kingdom as well.

Where the ministers in the cabinet had disdained Bin before, mostly because of his youthful face and bare feet, now they were terrified of him. Namjun had summoned a shaman to the palace to place more bindings on Bin, and now in addition to the red and blue cords binding his torso, he wore a black leather collar around his neck, and he hated it.

He hated Namjun, too. Everyone but Namjun could see it.

Or maybe Namjun could see it, but he didn’t seem to care.

Myungjun avoided his brother and avoided as many official functions as he could get away with. He hid in his quarters, or at the moon pools, or in Bin’s quarters - because no one dared to go there anymore, not even the maids, not when Bin would be seen running across the palace rooftops with a bloody club in hand - drawing or playing music until Bin returned from wherever Namjun summoned him, unless he’d failed to avoid being summoned to ride out with Namjun as well.

It was a better-kept secret that other kingdoms weren’t just terrified of Bin - they hated Namjun for using Bin as he did.

Where Father had sometimes held council with Bin and some of his senior, most-trusted advisors well into the night, Namjun rarely asked Bin for advice, just loosed his magic upon enemies or detractors or people who disagreed with him.

Perhaps if Namjun had spoken to Bin or inquired of him, he’d have seen an assassination attempt coming.

Every king was on guard against assassination attempts in a general sense.

Most kings didn’t think to be on guard against an assassination attempt that was a coordinated effort by not two but four enemy kingdoms: Baekje, Goguryeo, Jurgen, and Qin, because the threat Bin posed - and Namjun’s reckless deployment of him - went beyond the pale.

The king’s guards couldn’t stand against the combined efforts of the best assassins from four kingdoms. 

Namjun’s wife was left not just a widow but childless.

The nation was in shock.

What was left of the cabinet was in shock.

Myungjun was the only logical choice to become the next king. He was seventeen but old enough. He’d been educated in the ways of kingship. He was a fine warrior and scholar. And he was, the rumors said, beloved of Bin.

A king’s first duty was to mourn the previous king.

“You must marry,” the Right State Minister said, as a dazed and exhausted Myungjun sat in his Father’s - elder brother’s - previous seat at the council table in the council chamber.

Bin stood at his right hand.

“That is your next duty to this nation,” the Left State Minister said.

“Mark, the Right and Left State Ministers agreeing on something,” Myungjun said faintly.

Jinwoo, on Myungjun’s left, smothered a laugh and turned it into a cough.

One of the historians coughed suspiciously as well.

Myungjun glanced at Bin, and then he said to the council, “Begin the marriage selection process. I will do my duty.”

“What shall we do about our political relations with our neighbors? We know that the four kingdoms are responsible for your brother’s death,” the Right State Minister said. He glanced at Bin.

Myungjun said, “Let me think on it, and I’ll bring a proposal to the next council meeting.”

“But Majesty -”

“Let me think on it,” Myungjun said again. “Unless you’d rather I make a hasty decision?” And he also glanced at Bin.

The ministers shifted nervously and then agreed to adjourn the council meeting. 

Myungjun waited till they were all out of the council chamber, and then he pushed himself out of the chair, resisted the urge to kick it over.

“Myungjun?” Bin asked quietly.

Myungjun turned to him. “I once heard the palace maids say that dokkaebis can give blessings, not just grant wishes.”

“They can,” Bin said.

“Would you be willing to give me a blessing, then? Before you go.” Myungjun swallowed hard.

Bin’s eyes went wide. “Before I go?”

“If you could bless me to be the best king I can, as wise and fair as possible, and the best husband and father I can be, I would appreciate it.” Myungjun blinked rapidly, sniffled.

Bin reached out, placed his hand on Myungjun’s head, closed his eyes, and for a moment Myungjun felt warm and light and free, and he saw the butterfly on the side of Bin’s neck flutter. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it flutter.

Then Bin stepped back.

Myungjun said, “Bin, the boy from under the moon, go be free.”

Bin looked at him for a long time. Then he said, “Yes, my king.”

He reached up and tore the leather collar off, flung it aside. He shrugged off his tunic, and the red and blue cords unknotted themselves, slithered off of his torso and dropped to the floor.

The council chamber doors flew open, and a mighty wind rushed through the room.

And then Bin was gone.

A delicate little butterfly fluttered out of the room and into the open air. Myungjun ran after it, a sob hitching in his throat, and watched it fly higher and higher until it was so small that it disappeared in the moonlight.

“Your Majesty?”

Myungjun spun.

Jinwoo stood behind him, expression hesitant. “Is the council meeting adjourned permanently for the evening, or did you just take a recess?”

Myungjun closed his eyes, curled his hands into fists, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Your Majesty?” Jinwoo sounded concerned.

Myungjun opened his eyes. “Permanently,” he said.

Jinwoo nodded. “Will you be returning to your quarters, Your Majesty, or…?” He craned his neck and peered behind Myungjun, scanning for Bin.

“My quarters,” Myungjun said, and started down the stairs. “Don’t worry, Bin is gone.”

“Gone?” Jinwoo asked. “Gone where? Did you send him on a mission?”

“I set him free,” Myungjun said.

Jinwoo stumbled. Myungjun caught him.

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty, I - did you say you  _ set him free?” _

“I did.”

“But -”

“I said I would, if I ever became king.”

* * *

At the next council meeting, Myungjun issued instructions for trade sanctions against Baekjae, Goguryeo, Jurgen, and Qin for their role in his elder brother’s death, inquired as to the search for suitable candidates for queen, and sought recommendations for replacements for cabinet ministers to fill the seats for those who had died or resigned during the last days of Namjun’s reign of terror.

“Is it true, that you set that creature free?” the Left State Minister asked.

Myungjun glanced at the historian, whose calligraphy brush stilled.

Jinwoo, at Myungjun’s right hand, also stilled.

“It is,” Myungjun said.

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“I said I would, if I ever became king, and I keep my word,” Myungjun said.

The Right State Minister eyed him. “What an empty promise, for someone who was never going to become king.”

The promise had been far from empty. Myungjun’s heart felt empty now. He played the butterfly song, and he felt hollow. He drew Bin’s face, and he felt hollow. He drew himself and Bin together, and he felt hollow. On the last full moon night he’d sat at the moon pools and searched for Bin and Sanha and saw nothing but the moon and felt hollow.

Myungjun looked at both State Ministers and said, “And yet I am king.”

They looked at each other.

The Left State Minister said, “What will we do without him?”

“We will be a strong nation, as we always have been,” Myungjun said. “Isn’t that what you always wanted? Weren’t you always telling my father that we were better off without Bin, that you were perfectly capable of advising him without Bin around? Or are you incapable and I should be looking for a new Left State Minister as well as a new wife?”

The Left State Minister pressed his lips into a thin line and said nothing.

Myungjun said, “I was never meant to be king, and Bin was never meant to be free, but I am king, and Bin is free, and here we are. Now you have the chance to do your jobs as ministers, and I have the chance to be king, and Bin can do whatever he wants.”

The Right State Minister burst out with, “But what if he seeks vengeance upon us?”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you were unkind to him.” Myungjun placed a hazelnut on the table. “I know you were all raised in noble homes and probably didn’t hear many folk tales, but if you crack a hazelnut, you can summon the dokkaebi who protects a house - or a palace.”

He reached out and made as if to crack the hazelnut, and all of the ministers flinched.

Instead, he scooped it up and tucked it into his sleeve, and he said, “Meeting adjourned.”

* * *

“Father, why do you always collect hazelnuts?” Junwoo asked.

“Because,” Soobin began.

Junwoo tossed his head. “I asked Father.”

Myungjun said, “Your elder sister knows. I don’t mind if she tells it.”

Junwoo pursed his lips thoughtfully, then finally said, “Nooi, why does Father collect hazelnuts?”

Soobin cleared her throat importantly and straightened up, lifted her chin like she was about to recite a lesson for her tutors. “Because when you crack a hazelnut, it summons the dokkaebi who protects the house you live in, and when he appears you can make a wish.”

Junwoo pounced on the hazelnut on Myungjun’s open palm and flung it on the ground and cracked it with his shoe. His nurses winced.

“Father, where’s the dokkaebi?” Junwoo demanded.

“It’s not quite that simple,” Father said, pulling Junwoo onto his lap and smoothing a hand over his hair. “First, you must be kind to the dokkaebi. You must leave him offerings of food and drink, you must sing him songs and, should you meet him, you must play dice with him and engage in ssireum matches with him. You must be friends with him.”

Junwoo yawned. “That sounds like a lot of work. I’m tired already.”

Myungjun chuckled softly. “It is a lot of work, but it’s worth it.”

“I’m still waiting to meet a dokkaebi,” Soobin said. “One day. Right, Father?”

Myungjun nodded. “One day.” He rose, Junwoo in his arms. “I think it’s time for Junwoo to sleep, though.”

One of the nurses stepped forward. “Your Majesty, shall I -?”

“I can take him,” Myungjun said. “Soon he’ll be too big for me to carry - or too old to want to let me.”

The nurse hesitated, stepped back, nodded and bowed, and Myungjun headed for the children’s quarters. Soobin trotted alongside him.

“Father, if you cracked a hazelnut and a dokkaebi really came, what would you do?”

“I’d ask him to build a big pile of leaves so we could jump on it,” Myungjun said.

“That is a lot of fun,” Soobin admitted. “And Mid-Autumn is coming soon. You could get some hazelnuts from Grandmother’s tree.”

“I could,” Myungjun said.

“Have you ever cracked a hazelnut, Father?”

“Many times, Soobinnie.”

“And does the dokkaebi come?”

“He will if he wants to.”

“I’ve never seen you crack a hazelnut.”

Myungjun just smiled and said, “Shh, your brother’s sleeping.”

* * *

Late at night, long after Myungjun had finished his duties, he dismissed Jinwoo and all the other servants, and he walked to the moon pools alone. It was a full moon, and he could sit and gaze at the moon’s beautiful golden reflection.

He leaned on the edge of the pools, and he reached into his sleeve, drew out a hazelnut, cracked it on the hard stone, waited.

He heard a breeze, saw a butterfly flit across the surface of the moon, and then someone barefoot landed on the edge of the pool.

**Author's Note:**

> I watched [this](https://youtu.be/-_k34MZsL7g) video about dokkaebi and was inspired
> 
> And of course by Favorite Boys by a.c.e
> 
> And by Bad Idea by Bin and Sanha - and their various [stage costumes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ayZcZGIc0zY)
> 
> And let's not forget Bin's ssireum performance at [Seollal ISAC 2019](https://youtu.be/G-Hk0brUPpc)


End file.
